I ate eggs for dinner three times last week, the only meals I cooked all week. Let it be a testimony: backyard chickens provide a bounty, and pregnant women (at least this one) are less inventive in the kitchen.

Summer has arrived in earnest around these parts, as daylight drifts late into the evening and the garden is beginning to have that scorched earth look. Two weeks ago the mercury hovered near 100 degrees, and I’ve been craving salt and spice and cool ever since. My mom’s gazpacho is the rare summer soup that delivers on all three counts.